Pariah King
by luxraisin
Summary: Time has passed since Dean left Purgatory. While searching for Kevin, he and Sam are drawn to a case in Texas where a string of seemingly unrelated murders has plagued a small town.
1. Chapter 1: Two Years Ago

"Don't worry, darling. It'll only hurt a little." Lips curved upward, catlike, in an impish smirk. "I expect." Light flared, blinding.

She crumbled.

...

...

A scream rent the air. The Impala ground to a halt.

By the time Dean had killed the engine, readied his gun and stepped cautiously out of the car, Sam crouched, a silhouette in the headlights, next to a crumpled figure in the middle of the road. Casting a glance up at the moon, the older brother swore under his breath and went to see if he had nearly run over an unconscious girl or a corpse.

"Are you okay?" Sam tried to get the young woman to respond. He brushed long hair out of his face and glanced up at Dean, who was staring at the girl with a furrowed brow and a tight frown, gun at the ready in case she turned out to be something more sinister than she initially appeared. With a slight nod, he acknowledged his brother.

Needing no further clarification, Sam gingerly turned her over and brushed charcoal brown curls away from a pale, angular face. Two fingers gently applied to her neck provided a weak pulse. "Can you hear me?" Sam asked her again, trying to speak as softly but firmly as he could. He reached around her shoulders to prop her up.

Less trusting than his brother, Dean reached into his jacket and pulled out a small. Despite his brother's incredulous look, he sprinkled some of the holy water on her face. When nothing happened apart from a vague twitch under her eyelids – a natural reaction that confirmed beyond the pulse that she was not only alive but near consciousness – he put the canteen away, satisfied. They could never be too careful, especially since they were no longer on the best of terms with the King of Hell. Who knew when some they might be dealing with a demon?

As Dean neared and knelt down beside his brother to see the girl, her eyes suddenly flicked open wide to reveal pale blue. Terror flashed across her face immediately after a brief moment of confusion. At first, she squirmed closer to Sam to get away from Dean, who she had seen first and was staring at, but then she twisted to see Sam and flung herself away from him as well.

"Demons!" she cried, scrambling back. "Get away from-"

Though she might have been about to finish the sentence, she couldn't for a horrible cough that dragged on for too long and left her curled up in an agonized ball, clutching her stomach and in tears.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Take it easy," Sam said, alarmed. He reached out to lay a hand on her arm, but she jerked away. "It's okay." Who was this girl and what had happened to her? She didn't look hurt apart from a few scrapes and bruises.

"Yeah. We're not demons," Dean said, putting the gun away and standing up. Was she a hunter?

After a long moment of pained groaning, she unfurled and slowly sat up to stare at them, still hugging herself as though to keep her insides in, though she appeared uninjured. She squinted at them in the darkness of the night and a slightly bewildered expression passed over her features.

"Do you think you can stand?" Sam asked, rising and offering her a hand. He chose to ignore the fact that she knew about demons until he knew she was well enough that he could get her into the car. They needed to get moving again soon. Leaving the car parked in the road, even in the middle of the night, probably wasn't the best idea.

After a moment of contemplation the young woman nodded. She wiped away the remnants of the holy water Dean had thrown on her face and reached up to take Sam's hand. Slowly, painfully, she stood up, wobbled but stayed up. Not very tall, but not terribly short. Kind of pretty, Dean realized, but he chose to ignore that until he could trust her to be human. Nothing good came from girls lying on the road at night, especially not roads _they_ were driving down; he no longer believed in coincidence.

She wasn't talking, not since the outburst, but her eyes focused on Dean, distrustful. Or maybe concerned? Whichever. It made him feel uncomfortable, especially since she nearly ignored Sam completely. "How do you know about demons?" he demanded. Something wasn't right about her, but he couldn't put his finger on what.

"Dean…" Sam groaned. His tone again reminded the elder Winchester that they were standing in the middle of a major road in the middle of the night. He shrugged. Sam said, "We can help you with whatever happened. The next town isn't very far from here. We can give you a ride."

Slowly, her gaze shifted from Dean to Sam's open puppy-dog eyes, devoid of emotion. She nodded, obviously still uncertain but trusting enough to get into the back of the car without any protest.

A few miles passed with only the sound of the engine in tune with Zeppelin playing on the radio before Sam turned down the music, brushed his hair away from his face, and turned to look at their passenger, who was still hugging herself tightly, huddled in a corner of the back seat. She hadn't bothered with a seat belt, but Sam ignored it, looked at her imploringly. "Can you tell us what happened?"

A shadow passed over her eyes, leaving an inscrutable but darker expression behind. She coughed lightly to clear her throat and opened her mouth to speak, paused. Then in a low, hoarse voice with an ethereal tone that sent a shiver down both the boys' spines, she said, "Demons."

"Care to explain, sister?" Dean asked, less delicately than Sam might have preferred. "You were alone there. You're acting like you're hurt, but you don't look it, and you're not possessed. So what did these demons do, exactly?"

His mind was racing with thoughts of possibilities, none of which he liked. No crossroads within several miles meant that it was unlikely she'd just made a demon deal but left open the possibility she'd made a deal years back (except even that seemed unlikely given that she appeared to be in her late-twenties, and he wasn't certain how likely demons were to go after teenage souls). Just an attack, then? Why was she alive?

Because Dean was driving, Sam watched her expression closely. That proved unhelpful, however. Nothing in the complex emotions that flowed through her eyes and caused slight twitches in her lips was easily discernible to him. "I can't remember," she said quietly, raising a hand from holding her side to rub her temple.

"Can't or won't?" Dean asked harshly.

"How can she _refuse_ to remember something, Dean?" Sam hissed, perplexed enough to look at his brother with raised eyebrows and wide eyes. Eyes kept sharply on the road, Dean ignored him.

No answer was required, though. The girl turned Sam's head back in her direction when she spoke stiffly, "It hurts too much to think about. But I could try," Grimace and swallow, voice low and nearly monotone even under strain. She closed her eyes a moment. Dark circles were noticeable underneath them. Bright white pain. "Everything hurts."

"Who _are_ you?" Dean burst, chancing a look at her through the mirror.

A pause. Silence.

Sam tried to smile comfortingly. From the front seat, he reached back to offer his hand for a shake. "I'm Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean."

Instead of taking his hand, she hugged herself tighter than she had before. "_Winchester_?" Wide eyes flashed surprise, or maybe fear. Looking around the car, anywhere but Sam's friendly but confused face, she whispered something unintelligible. With the word, the surprise in her eyes was replaced by pain and hoarse coughing.

Dean swerved off the road, slammed on the breaks and parked the car so he could whirl to face her and her wide, pale stare. "Who _are_ you? Or better: _what_ are you?" he demanded again. This time, Sam watched her just as closely as his brother without any reprimand for the harshness. He was beginning to pick up on what Dean had felt from the beginning – something about her was… off.

She breathed in sharply, nearly delirious. "Hunters. Keep them away…"

The brothers exchanged a glance, both thinking the same thing and avoiding thinking about the same thing. "What the hell?" Dean. "Why do we always pick up the crazy chicks?" he grumbled.

When she opened her eyes, the motion was slow and deliberate, and her gaze was more focused than it had been but evident of unclear thought – she looked directly at Dean, and he felt a renewed wave of unease. "Where are we? My head is on _fire_," she groaned, lowering her face into her hands and gritting her teeth.

"Take it easy," Dean urged, still more nervous in his inability to identify what she was – just a hunter with serious psychological trauma? Carefully, he wedged the gun from his belt and kept it where he could reach it quickly if he needed it. God knew, he had no idea what was going on with this girl. Was she dangerous or in danger? And more importantly, did that put him and Sam in danger?

Pale eyes flashed in a strange burst of anger and pain as she looked up again, suddenly. Had she seen the gun? "You don't understand." Lips set in a hard line. Though this confused the boys even more, they couldn't disagree; they didn't understand at all. But she immediately sagged again, apparently confused herself, and lowered her head again.

All motion ceased, the only sound her ragged breathing. When she finally looked up, Sam could see sweat beading at her temples, and he instantly regretted whatever line of conversation had led to this distress. Dean frowned. The girl clutched her head, closed her eyes tightly again, trembling. "No, no, no…" she groaned. Maybe the memory was coming back? She'd said it hurt.

Concerned, Sam reached back and felt her brow. "Dean, she's burning up," he said, alarmed. "I think we need to get her to a hospital." Quite suddenly, she let out a low moan of pain and curled up on the seat, squirming, gasped, and went still.

Dean started the car again, started moving down the road. The engine revved with the force of rapid acceleration. They needed to get into town, get her to a hospital, and find a hotel. The car wasn't a good place for this. And frankly, Dean wasn't a fan of her cryptic amnesia story. The sooner she was out of their hands, the better.

...

...

"There doesn't appear to be anything physically wrong with her," the doctor said, though her tone was guarded.

"She was having some kind of migraine," Sam said, brow furrowed in confusion. "She passed out. You're sure there's nothing wrong?" They stood in the ER waiting room, though the girl had been moved somewhere else to rest.

"There wasn't any sign of external trauma or internal bleeding." The doctor explained, giving Sam her best optimistic-but-concerned look. "Unfortunately, that means that the amnesia she is experiencing doesn't have an obvious cause. We believe it may be shock-induced repression, which will hopefully dissipate as the effects of any recent psychological trauma wear off."

Sam cleared his throat. "Has she said anything about that? About the, uh… trauma?"

The doctor shook her head, "Afraid not. Your help on the road is the last thing she remembers."

"Can I go see her?"

Hesitation in the doctor's eyes took Sam off guard. "She's resting now. But you could come back this afternoon and see her. She should be ready for visitors then."

"Thanks, doc," he said lamely and retreated down the hallway. The only thing left to do, if he couldn't talk to her, which had been the entire point of this trip to the hospital, was to go and meet Dean in the hotel. They had agreed to leave, even though they hadn't found out what had happened to her. News had spread of demonic omens down south, and if they didn't follow the lead quickly, the trouble would likely pass before they arrived.

So they left her there.


	2. Chapter 2: It All Spans Out

_Two years passed…_

* * *

Riley clasped his hands over Beckett's mouth to hold back the sound of her ragged sobbing breaths lest they draw unwanted attention. The pair huddled against the bathroom wall in darkness while _it_ shuffled in the living room of their shared flat. In the blackness of the room, only Beckett's eyes, wild with fear, reflected the tiny amount of light leaking in from under the door.

The shuffling stopped suddenly. They tensed, ceased breathing.

Slowly, a creak sounded in the hall, just outside the door. Something scraped the wall with enough force that Beckett and Riley could hear the dry wall crackle and flake to the floor where something was destroying it. And that _thing_ was drawing closer and closer to the door.

The scraping stopped. Silence again.

Beckett trembled beneath Riley's hand. She squirmed as the sound of the front door opening reached them. "Jules!" she hissed.

"Hello?" a male voice called. "Becks! Riley! I've got beer, guys! So you'll have to pay for the pizza." A pause. "Guys?"

The thing in the hallway moved audibly down the hall. Riley gritted his teeth as Beckett began crying. He kept his hand tightly over her mouth again lest the thing come back for them. Perhaps it would be satisfied after –

Screams reverberated deafeningly throughout the apartment.

And then an even louder silence.

* * *

Aerosmith sang under the rumble of the Impala's engine, competing for attention with the thunder of the storm outside the car. From the passenger seat, Sam watched charcoal clouds darken the midday sky and roll by as they drove along I-45. The familiar hum of the Impala was comforting enough, even amid Dean's classic rock sing-alongs and the clashing clouds outside, that rest was tempting.

They had stopped off in Fort Worth to take care of a minor poltergeist problem, and now they were heading further south into Texas. Apparently a string of suspicious murders plagued some small town just outside the sprawl of Houston, and they were going to see if it was anything supernatural. Sam had done what research he could, so nothing was left for the next three hours of driving but watching the boring, sparsely forested lands in the middle of Texas roll by. Or sleep.

Eventually, he fell into the latter.

Dean glanced over at his younger brother after an hour of steady driving and noticed the even rise and fall of a sleeping man's chest. He smirked, unbothered that Sam could sleep while he couldn't, because he was the one who chose to drive most often; the Impala was _his_ baby after all. Seeing Sam sleeping had become somewhat comforting – an indication he was healthy – even after so much time had passed. While Dean couldn't deny that sleep would be welcomed, he honestly enjoyed the driving. There was something therapeutic in the rumble of Baby's engine, something strangely safe in the mundane danger of driving along the interstate. And now that Sam was asleep, he could turn up the music without hearing protest.

So he did.

Bon Jovi blared when the lightning bolt hit the ground just off of the road with an explosion that had Sam sitting bolt upright, wide awake before he realized he'd even been asleep for the last few hours. Dean, who'd been driving through violent sheets of rain for the past hour with cautious determination, could hardly suppress a chuckle. "Scared of a little storm, Sammy?"

Sam rubbed his eyes and relaxed into a yawning stretch, then turned down the music slightly. He didn't dignify his brother with a direct response; instead, he asked a question of his own, "How far out are we?"

"Twenty minutes."

Not enough time to go back to sleep. Rain pelted the windshield and ran rivers down the sides, and Sam watched it, wishing vaguely that it were coffee.

The motel was the first stop, nearly always was. Sam ran in to book a room and get the keys while Dean parked.

Sirens wailed along the road as Sam jogged back through the lessening rain to meet Dean by the car, room key now in his pocket. "Looks like we got here just in time for some action."

Dean gave a wry smile.

Without needing to talk about it, they slipped into the room and into officious suits. Then back into the Impala, which they parked across the street from an apartment building where several police cars crowded a cramped parking lot. The rain let up into a light mist.

The coroners had already taken care of the body when the boys arrived, false FBI identification ready to flash at any quizzical faces. They would talk to the police, but there were two people – clearly witnesses – whom they really wanted to talk to. In a well-coordinated, well-practiced dance, they moved through various officers to pick up pieces of the story before moving along.

* * *

The tears streamed unrelenting down her face, evident now that the rain no longer hid them. With a stony expression, Riley watched his roommate as she sobbed inconsolably into his chest, his arm loosely draped around her shoulders. He knew he should be upset as well, but he didn't feel anything, didn't believe what he'd experienced enough to be able to feel its effects yet.

They'd told all they could to the police. Well, he had _tried_ to explain what had happened. Beckett hadn't been able to get two words out without breaking down into a puddle of unintelligible tears, so the police were leaving her alone for the moment. And they didn't believe Riley's story.

Until the feds showed up.

Riley watched them walk up: two men in suits. One absurdly tall, the other smug. Once across the police line with flashed badges, they very nearly made a b-line for where he and Beckett sat on the hood of a police car. Apprehension rose in Riley's stomach. Why would anyone other than the police be here?

They kept a respectable distance from the pair to remain unobtrusive – Riley gave them credit for that much – and each pulled out his badge to flash at them before putting it away again inside their jacket pockets. Seemed legit.

"Hello, I'm agent Walsh, and this is my partner, Agent Steinhardt," the tall one said, face open, eyebrows arching upward in slightly more than professional concern.

For no reason he would be able to explain, it annoyed Riley when Beckett calmed down enough to turn and weakly shake _Agent_ Walsh's hand. She looked up into his friendly puppy eyes and stopped crying. "B-Beckett Williams," she stuttered. Steinhardt shook her hand gingerly when Walsh stepped back again.

"Riley Fallon," Riley said, shaking their hands as well, though far less amiably

"We're sorry for your loss," Walsh said.

"Real sorry. Mind if we ask a few questions, Mr. Fallon?" Steinhardt asked.

Riley frowned as Beckett sniffled, still not fully composed. "We've already talked to the police. What does the FBI want?"

Walsh licked his lips and shook shaggy-for-a-fed hair away from his face uncomfortably, but Steinhardt shrugged and produced a winning smile. "Investigating the recent murders in the area. We'd like to hear what _you_ have to say. Just standard procedure."

Riley blinked. Had he winked at Beckett? Completely inappropriate. Not much to do about it, though. He didn't have claim over Beckett, nor did he want any. She was like a sister, and he intended to protect her the best he could, especially now that physical danger was actual a possibility. The idea of some federal agent hitting on her just after one of her closest friends had been murdered seemed wrong. Even in quietly fuming about that, he realized he would be the one to answer most of the questions. Beckett was too upset to be terribly coherent.

"Becks and I are roommates," he began, still unsure how to even attempt to explain what he wished he hadn't seen or heard. "We were going to have pizza with our friend Julian, but _something_ broke in through the window and attacked us. We were hiding in the bathroom when Julian came in…" He broke off and restarted. "When we found him, he was... But the thing that killed him was gone." Beckett snuffled but held it together, wiping her puffy eyes while Riley absently stroked her shoulder.

"Hold on, are you Irish?" Steinhardt couldn't resist an amused grin. Walsh saved Riley the need for response by elbowing his partner roughly in the ribs. At least one of them had a shred of sensibility.

The taller fed changed the subject. "Mr. Fallon, you said some_thing_ attacked you. What do you mean by that?"

"Couldn't have been human," Riley murmured.

"Please," Beckett suddenly broke out, distracting Walsh and Steinhardt from Riley's answer. "Jules was our friend. You have to stop what killed him before it hurts someone else." She pulled away from Riley enough to grasp Agent Walsh's hand again, this time with both of her hands, revealing several deep gashes along her left arm that made the fed wince sympathetically. "Please. The police won't believe us."

"_I _don't believe us," Riley muttered, averting his eyes.

The feds gave him a glance that he could only call a mixture of incredulity and concern. "Young lady, you can tell _us_ what you saw," Steinhardt said. "It's our job to deal with the sort of things the police don't know how to handle." A passing officer glared balefully, but Steinhardt paid no heed.

"Why don't you come back later when everything's settled down, Agent," Riley said gruffly. He needed time to piece together what had happened, and he needed to be on the same page as Beckett. "We're in shock. And someone still needs to look at her arm."

Self-consciously, Beckett withdrew her injured limb and huddled back toward her Irish friend.

"Of course," Agent Walsh replied sharply. He pulled a card out of his coat pocket and handed it to Riley. "We'll be back later to debrief and make sure you're alright. Call if you need anything, in the meantime. We're here to help."

After talking to the police for several minutes and thoroughly exploring the crime scene, they left. Riley didn't bother following them into the flat when they went up to look around. If they were truly feds, it they were unlikely to tear it up any more than the attacker or the police already had. He hugged Beckett tightly; she'd started crying again.

* * *

As they strode back towards the Impala, Dean resisted the urge to glance back at the victim's so-called friends. "Is it just me or did that guy seem a little defensive?"

Sam pursed his lips, opening the passenger door once they had reached the car. "Well, his friend _was _just murdered in his apartment. Maybe… I guess we'll find out when we talk to him. And the girl – Beckett?"

"Yeah, she was cute." Dean smiled retrospectively. "Too bad she's shacked up with a leprechaun." Ignoring his brother's knack for inappropriate timing, Sam shrugged. "Hey, what do you think attacked them, anyway?"

"I don't know, Dean. I mean, something about the crime scene didn't seem right to me. Too…"

"Normal. Any psychopath could have killed someone like that." Dean finished Sam's thought. He opened the car door and leaned against the frame while talking.

The body had been taken away, so they would have to go take a look at it in the morgue the next day, but the blood splattered around the room and reports from the police painted a reasonably clear picture. The victim had been brutally cut up near the entrance to the apartment. There were signs of a struggle, which meant it hadn't necessarily been an easy kill, and the weapon – a kitchen knife – had been left at the scene, still in the victim's stomach... though outside the body. Bloody shoe prints had been left though the room and then simply disappeared again at the door. No EVP, sulfur or other obvious signs of supernatural activity. The killer could have easily just taken off his shoes before leaving the apartment to avoid continuing the blood trail.

"Think it's our kind of thing, though?" Sam asked, sinking into his familiar seat and pulling the door shut, unconsciously synchronized with his brother's movements. While the murders left a bitter taste in his mouth –

"I think there have been an awful lot of murders for a small town and that it's worth checking out." Dean said. He didn't want to back down from a possible case just because everything seemed to check out as normal at first. They had been wrong before.

Sam nodded. "Right." He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes in thought at Dean. "But where do we start? They don't want to talk until later."

The engine roared to life. "We can check out the other murders and see if there's any relation, right? This many, there has to be _something _we didn't find online_._"

But there wasn't. All of the other murders seemed self-contained and neatly solved, each with a single vic and a clear killer with circumstantial evidence enough for a clean conviction. None of them had been left hanging. No signs of anything other than human-on-human violence.

"This is weird," Sam said after hours of alternatively sifting through police reports and interviewing people who had been involved in the other incidents over the past ten years.

"You're telling me," Dean agreed. Something definitely wasn't right about it. He could feel it in his gut in the same way he knew something was off about that Riley guy.

"Nothing links them. They don't have any of the same friends. None of them were related. Completely random vics."

"It's a pattern anyway, Sam," Dean said, suddenly flicking through the last report they had been looking at. "We know that there will be a clear murderer." He paused then smirked mordantly. "How much do you want to bet it'll be Lucky the Leprechaun."

"We don't know that," Sam countered. He was suspicious too, but he wanted to know more before he started doling out blame, unless Dean was getting at something else.

"That's what the police think, Sammy. You heard them." He shrugged one shoulder. "I'm not too fond of the guy either, but I'm not going to call him a murderer yet. We need to talk to him before he's arrested or it's going to be more complicated."

"That girl, though. Beckett. She says that they were together the whole time and that it was something else that killed their friend." He shook his head in shrug. "Nothing left to do but find out what it was they think attacked them."

"Any guesses?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "Cause I'm thinking shape-shifter."

Sam nodded. "Takes the form of someone close to the vic, someone with motive."

"Ganks 'em and leaves enough evidence to get convicted."

"Happened before," Sam agreed. He treaded carefully around the subject. They'd had more than their fair share of unfortunate run-ins with the law, more than once because of a shape-shifter. If this was another one framing murders on innocent people, then the Winchesters had to be cautious about handling it. Sam could sense his older brother's wariness. Dean would come up all bravado and swashbuckling charm, but Sam knew him well enough to know that he was nervous about shifters. "Think it's been long enough?" he asked.

"Better have been. Let's go."

Sam touched his shoulder lightly to stay him. "Hold on," he said, glancing across the street. "You go check out the bar. I'm not sure Riley is your biggest fan, and besides, it's a good resource. Maybe someone knew the vic or the witnesses."

"Hey, you don't have to tell _me_ twice." Grinning crookedly, Dean patted his brother on the arm. "You go talk to Lucky, dude. I'll drink a beer for you."

"Thanks, man," Sam said, feigning disappointment for his brother's benefit. Anything to keep Dean relaxed. He'd been through a lot. Sam had, too, of course. But Dean had a way of completely ignoring his problems until they built up like pressurized steam, and then he broke. It made sense to ease that pressure wherever possible. Besides, sometimes-alcoholic that he was, Dean was probably dying for a beer anyway. "See you later, Dean."


	3. Chapter 3: Looking Back

"How tall do you think he is? Like a moose…"

Having mostly recovered her composure, Beckett shot Riley a dark look. "He's from the FBI, and he's going to help us about Jules. Does it matter how tall he is?" They watched him approach the hotel from their room window – for the night, they weren't staying in their apartment – and despite her dismissal of the subject, she had to admit to being impressed by his height.

"Doesn't matter what they do. They can't bring him back," Riley grumbled.

Beckett frowned deeply. "Riley!" she whispered. Averted eyes. His shame clung to the air until Agent Walsh knocked on their door, and Beckett answered. "Hello, Agent… Walsh?"

"Please. It's Sam." He smiled.

She faltered. He really didn't look like a federal agent. He might be wearing a suit, but there was a strangeness to his eyes, and his hair was simply too ridiculously long. Still, she had no reason to believe he would be lying about being with the FBI. Even the police had trusted him. With a slightly softer tone, she repeated his name. "Sam." Then remembering the situation, she stepped away from the doorway and motioned with her uninjured hand. "Come in."

As he stepped inside the room, Sam took a moment to get a better look at her, now that she wasn't drowning herself in her own tears or drenched from the rain. Straight, mousey hair pulled back loosely from a plain face adorned with stylish but unobtrusive glasses. Simple v-neck t-shirt and shorts. Not trying to catch attention but pretty enough to get it, if she wanted. Who would attack a girl like this? He brushed his hair away from his face. She probably hadn't been the target.

Her friend, then?

Still by the window, Riley leaned against the far wall with his arms crossed tightly across his narrow chest, keeping as much distance from the fed as he could while still in the same room. His dark hair was kept short but remained ruffled from the recent escapade and, though they hadn't been obviously visible outside in the fading light of the evening, under the fluorescents of the hotel room bruising was evident along the right side of his face and arm and probably extended under his shirt as well. Lips stretched in a tight line, he merely nodded at Sam in greeting.

Shirking the Irishman's tangible hostility, Sam raised his hands disarmingly. He couldn't help but feel grateful he hadn't brought Dean along. "Look, I just want to hear what you have to say."

Riley remained silent, but Beckett looked imploringly up at the fed. Her speech, though clear, was rapid with a panicked undertone. "You won't believe us. The police didn't. They think that Riley did it and I'm just covering for him." Her friend's expression darkened visibly. "But that's not true." She trailed off.

Noting Riley's reaction, Sam chose his words carefully. "The police don't always understand what they're dealing with. It's our job to deal with the weird. My partner and I believe you. Trust me." He tilted his head down slightly and smiled as reassuringly as he could. Even through the trauma of diverting multiple apocalyptic situations and being literally dragged through hell, he retained the open-faced puppy-dog charm that made people inclined to trust him. He could see, even in Riley's face, the beginnings of confidence. Beckett nodded.

"So, what happened?"

The roommates exchanged a glance, wordlessly deciding who should talk first. Beckett, though still clearly rattled, was much better composed than she had been at the crime scene. She cleared her throat politely to signal to Riley that she was willing to tell the story. He made no motion to acknowledge this but remained quiet. Sam couldn't help but notice a parallel between their relationship and his with Dean in their ability to communicate without talking, but he wasn't sure if that was comforting or made him uneasy.

Beckett motioned for Sam to sit down on a chair in the room, and he complied, while she seated herself on the edge of one of the hotel beds to face him. At first, she merely fidgeted awkwardly and bit her lip, requiring a twitched smile of reassurance from Sam before she worked up the nerve to speak.

"Um… Well, Riley and I are really good friends with Julian," she began. "We have Jules over a lot for beers and pizza. He likes to come over to watch TV, you know? We were going to have him over tonight." She had to pause a moment and recollect herself before going on.

"I get back from work before Riley does." She paused again to glance at the Irishman. He didn't react very specifically, already watching her closely or else watching Sam, who decided on paying closer attention to Riley than to Beckett. Why was she so nervous about her roommate?

"When I got home, I knew something was wrong. Some papers I'd left on the coffee table were messed up. The light was on in the kitchen. I mean," she said, now looking unsteadily at the floor, "at first, I thought that Riley had gotten back before me, but no one was in the place that I could find – it's not that big – and then Riley came in at his usual time." She licked her lips, looked up. "He was scared."

At this mentioning, Riley only moved to turn his head away, looking sideways out the window with a pensiveness that suddenly made Sam realize that maybe this _had _been just as traumatic for him – he just wasn't dealing with it yet, and reliving it here with Beckett telling the story was hard for him. A small amount of suspicion lifted, but not enough to allow Sam to relax.

"Someone had followed him all the way back from work," she said. "Or he thought so. Riley's not… He's not really the paranoid type, so I was nervous. We locked down the apartment, and we were about to call Julian to tell him not to come over when… s-someone… They kicked the door in."

Though he had questions, Sam remained quietly listening. He wanted to hear what she had to say before he interrupted her, uncertain of how fragile her calm was. Remaining intent, he only shifted vaguely in the chair, brushed his hair back out of his face.

"I was making tea," she continued. "I think maybe I screamed, but I didn't really see who or what it was that came into the apartment at first, because I ducked below the counter. First reaction… Riley was yelling. I could hear him. But the _thing _was just making these… these awful gurgling noises. I had to see, so I peaked around the corner."

Sam sat up a little straighter.

"He? It? He looked human. The shape... Was all dressed in black, had a big coat on. But the eyes." She stopped, bit her lip, continued. "The eyes were glowing red. And its fingers were like claws. Like these big daggers for nails. It… It threw Riley across the room – _who can even do that?_ – and came after me." Subconsciously, she rubbed her now-bandaged left arm.

"I tried to get away, and I'm not sure I would have if Riley hadn't hit it in the head with the lamp when he got the chance. It fell over, and we ran and locked ourselves in the bathroom with the lights off. Hiding seemed to make more sense than running. I think it was a few minutes before it got up again, but when it did… All we could hear was the sound of it breathing and carving up the walls. And then…" She had held it together well the entire time, but here she broke down – not crying, exactly, but near enough that she could not speak coherently.

A glance thrown at Riley told Sam that he was in no better shape to continue the narrative. "Julian showed up, didn't he?" Sam supplemented what he suspected was the conclusion of the story.

Though she took a moment to collect herself, Beckett nodded.

"And it just left?"

Swallow. "We heard it knocking things around for a while, and then it went quiet. We waited a while before Riley went out to check, and it was gone."

"Beckett," Sam said gently, "you said you could hear it scratching up the walls. The police report doesn't list the walls as damaged, and they looked fine when my partner and I went to look around."

A kind of desperation flashed in the girl's eyes. "What?" She whirled to look at Riley for answer.

"I don't understand," he said quietly. "We heard the drywall breaking like it was being shredded, but I could see when I came out to look for the thing that the walls were fine." Brows knitted, Sam stared at him. The Irishman shrugged. "And besides that, it looked like it had _cleaned up after itself._"

It came Sam's turn to frown. "Listen, did you ever smell anything strange when it attacked you? Would have been like rotten eggs, maybe? Or did the lights flicker before it came in?" The words came out slowly, carefully. These people were already upset enough, and he didn't really want to freak them out about what they had seen more than he had to. Maybe he and Dean had missed the sulfur when they had swept the place before. Except, this didn't sound like any demon attack he had seen.

The roommates exchanged a bewildered glance. Riley spoke curtly, "No. Why would _that_ happen?" Beckett shifted uncomfortably.

"No reason," Sam said, stuck suddenly in an awkward place that he was unfortunately used to but no less comfortable with. He twitched a smile, knitted his eyebrows, trying to find the right way to dance around sounding crazy. "Don't worry about it. Just a standard question… We're very thorough." He glanced at the door then at each roommate. "Was there anything else strange about him? Could you see his face? You said the eyes were glowing red."

"Probably just LEDs to make him look scary," Riley grumbled.

"Riley," Beckett groaned, clearly not sharing in her friend's cynicism about what they had seen. Somehow, Sam was almost inclined to believe in Riley's theory: this was just some psychopath in a costume going around brutally murdering people and then pinning it on someone else.

"He was wearing a mask," Riley explained, ignoring her. "And body paint or something."

Sam nodded and took a moment to process the information, then he looked up and raised his eyebrows slightly. "Hey, this is off-topic, but how long have you two been together?"

If the blank stares didn't make it obvious to him that he had been mistaken about their relationship, then Riley's delayed, sardonic snort did.

"We're… We're not…" Beckett sputtered.

"I'm gay," Riley said flatly.

"Oh… OH." Sam grinned awkwardly. "Sorry, I didn't know." He changed the subject quickly in an attempt to save face. "So your friend Julian… Did he have any enemies you'd know about? Was there anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?"

Beckett's eyes widened. "No! Of course not."

Riley's mouth tightened into a thin line. Sam raised his eyes to the young man until he uncrossed his arms and licked his lips. "Some lunatic sent him an anonymous death threat in the mail about a week ago. But that shouldn't make a difference. The thing attacked _us._"

"What?" His friend turned to look at him, startled. "No one told me someone threatened Jules!"

"We didn't want to scare you, darling. Nothing ever happened." Until now.

"What did it look like?" Sam asked. Riley's face had become even paler than it already was, causing the bruises on his face to stand out, livid, from his flesh. "What did it say?"

"It just said, '_Death,'_ and it had this little…" He swallowed, trailed off. Sam's intent stare brought him back. "It had a four-leaf clover stitched into it."


	4. Chapter 4: Before the Pain

The bar that Sam had pointed out to Dean down the street from the records office proved to be an English-style pub. The wooden sign outside with a medieval lion rearing amid the name of the establishment elicited a visible roll of the eyes from the hunter as he headed for the door. Hopefully they would at least have good beer.

And helpful staff.

Or at least a few girls worth checking out.

He moved straight to the bar, where the bartender was some guy roughly his age with wavy, dull brown hair and equally lack-luster grey eyes deeply ringed from insomniatic sleeping habits. He had been scribbling something into a notebook when Dean sat down and ordered a beer. With a friendly nod, he promptly fetched the drink then used the opportunity to give the hunter a once-over.

"You're not from here."

"No," Dean confirmed, reaching into his coat pocket to show the bartender his fake FBI badge. "Agent Dean Steinhardt." He flashed straight white teeth.

"Luc." He didn't offer his hand in greeting, though he smiled vaguely. "This is about that murder, isn't it?" the bartender said, stacking clean dishes as he spoke. There were other people in the pub but the bar itself was moving slowly enough that they could keep up a conversation. Something in his eyes made him look nervous, but Dean could write that off easily. They were talking about a murder in a small town. "Poor kid. Conway, right?"

"Yeah," Dean replied. "Mind if I ask a few questions?" He put the ID back into its pocket and took a sip of his drink. The place might be a bit of a dive, but the beer was at least palatable. Though, at this point, lighter fluid was nearly palatable. His tastes weren't terribly discerning anymore.

The bartender looked like he was about to say something about the beer, probably something about drinking on the job, but he rethought that and instead answered Dean's question with a shrug. "Sure, but I'm not sure how much help I'll be."

"These are just routine questions. It's nothing to worry about."

The bartender finished with the dishes, filled up a drink for another customer and leaned in against the counter. "Okay, shoot."

Did you know the victim personally?"

"He came in here a lot to see Lailah. She's the manager here. He'd come with friends, so I saw a lot of the three of them: Becks, Riley and Conway. College friends, I think." He frowned. "Sorry, your question was about whether I knew him. We weren't friends, but I saw him enough to know his type."

The nonplussed inflection of speech reminded Dean briefly of a friend a long time ago, but he pushed the idea away. This man was sure as hell no angel. "His type?"

"Player," the bartender shrugged. "Flirted with everyone. He and his friend would get into fights about that sometimes, but never anything serious, you know? Kind of…" Thinking, he quirked his lips in a wry almost-smile. "Kind of a bromantic frenemies thing." He made air quotes, and Dean had to fight hard not to cringe.

"His friend? You mean Riley – Irish kid."

"Yeah," the bartender nodded, crossing his arms. "That's the one. I think he only hung out with Julian because of the girl, but that's just projection. They got on fine most of the time."

"Right," Dean said, mentally running through the story. "You said he came here to see some girl?"

"Lailah. Afraid she's not in or I'd have you talk to her. She probably knew him better than me," he drawled. "Happy to answer any questions you might have, of course."

Dean nodded. "Let me know if Lailah gets in, because I think I would like to talk to her. In the meantime, have you noticed anything strange around here lately?"

"Apart from the murder?"

"Yeah."

The bartender shifted uneasily and raised an eyebrow. "No… What do you mean?"

Dean glance at the watch on his wrist, mentally trying to decide whether he wanted to bring Sam back tomorrow or just try to find out what he could here, because he seemed to have found a fairly solid connection to the people involved. He quickly redirected his gaze to the bartender, who appeared concerned, though only in a hazy sort of way. "Don't worry about it. Listen, I'll be back tomorrow with my partner, Sam, to talk to the other staff. Think Lailah'll be in?"

At this, the bartender appeared uncertain. "I don't know. She's out sick, man, so she might still be out tomorrow, but if she is, I'll give her a call and see if she'd mind talking to you."

"Good," Dean rapped on the counter and stood to pay for the beer. "Do that. Thanks for your time, uh… Luc," he said with a friendly nod. And he strolled out the door again.

The bartender refilled a few drinks he had neglected in talking to the supposed fed, watching Dean leave as he did so. Once he was sure he wouldn't be in demand for a few minutes, he backed off from the counter and leaned against a far corner of the area behind the bar, pulling out his phone to make a call.

* * *

Nothing fit into place.

By the time Dean and Sam met up again at the apartment, both had come to a similar but disheartening conclusion: this wasn't the work of anything supernatural. Just people. Riley may or may not have done it – odds and intuition said no.

The brothers decided to sleep on the matter, visit the bar together the next day to do a last bit of research, and then decide from there whether to get involved with a potentially human affair or leave it to the local authorities.

In the night, the bartender stood a few feet from a darkly clad figure, speaking in hushed tones.

* * *

"You're certain?" she asked, eyes hard and appraising, still lacking trust though they had been working together for some months without incident. The very nature of his profession and past affiliations separated them on a fundamental level.

"His name was Dean," he said, his voice soft and much less friendly than it had been when he had spoken to the Winchester earlier. Bartending hadn't been his first line of work. ? He stared at the young woman, eyes wide in a hazy, perpetually-stoned and over-caffeinated, insomniatic sort of way more than in a show of any specific emotion.

She didn't respond, awaiting further proof.

"He looked like the guy who was on tv a while ago." A mid-western accent became apparent as he went on, a far cry from the southern drawl of bartender Luc. "He mentioned a partner – he was pretending to be FBI – and he called him Sam…"

At the name of the younger Winchester, the woman shifted, signally her recognition. A flicker of acceptance made itself apparent for a moment in her eyes as she studied the man in front of her. "Well, then. Finally, the Winchesters."

* * *

The following morning, Dean woke to Sam shutting the hotel room door and walking in, sweating lightly and dressed apparently for a jog. He grumbled and rubbed his eyes, glanced at the little alarm clock next to the bed, which he couldn't be bothered to read for his bleary morning vision.

"Christ, Sammy."

Rather than respond to his brother's complaint, Sam simply set down a bag on the table with their breakfast inside. "I'm gonna take a shower," he said. "That's food."

Dean fell back heavily onto his pillow, watching Sam head off to the bathroom and waited until his brother had closed the door before sliding out of bed, dressing more completely, and settling into one of the cheap chairs the motel had supplied for its equally cheap table. Sam had brought in some kind of fast food breakfast, a fair indication to Dean that he wanted to get started on the case early today. And fair enough. They had accomplished little the day before.

When the boys finally talked about it, they decided to go and check the pub again for further leads. Dean was anxious to get to talk to Lailah, since she seemed to be in the middle of what he had found. Of course, she could also know absolutely nothing, which would put them back to square one and in need of a more thorough chat with the victims themselves.

* * *

"Agent Dean!" The bartender from the previous evening called out in greeting.

"Luc!" Dean greeted the man in a friendly tone. He and his brother strolled up to the bar, though before any further words could be exchanged, Sam tapped Dean on the shoulder, pointing across the pub at a waitress taking an order at a table with a couple of college kids. Surprised, Dean frowned at the bartender. "Hey, isn't that Beckett Williams? You didn't say she worked here." He did his best to keep any hostility out of his voice.

Luc licked his lips and began filling up two glasses of beer. "I forgot. She's newer, man, and I don't normally work when she does. Day shift was sick, so Lailah asked me to fill in for him. Guess something's going around, because she's still out, too."

Sam smirked at the Texan drawl briefly before pulling out his fake FBI badge to show the man. "Agent Sam Walsh," he said, keeping his face straight. "Is there anything else you may have forgotten that could help us in our investigation, Mister…?"

"Luc Tueur," he replied, placing the pints of beer on the counter. "On the house, since you're doing this town a huge favor by investigating the murder."

"Hey, thanks, man!" Dean said, starting to reach out for one with a grin.

His younger brother nudged him sharply in the ribs but flashed a professional smile at the bartender. "We're on duty." Dean deflated.

With a shrug, the bartender removed the beer, setting it aside, and leaned on the counter. "How can I help?" he asked. "What do you think I'd know?"

"You're a bartender. You must hear people talking all the time, right?" The bartender shrugged. "Do you think there's anyone who had it out for Conway?" Sam pressed. "Anyone seemed particularly edgy or suspicious lately?"

"Most folks, since the murder, have been a bit edgy," the bartender replied, a little too casually. He raised his eyebrows, staring owlishly at Sam. "But I suppose you mean beforehand. I can't say as I notice anyone particularly spooky who looked like they were about to murder someone."

"What about Conway's friends? Think they'd have any reason to kill him?"

This sent the bartender into a thoughtful quiet for a moment. He squinted and then replied. "Well, Julian broke up with Riley's little sister a while ago, but I'm not sure that's really reason for a man to kill someone. Weren't they at the scene, anyway?"

Dean looked at Sam. "Can you think of anyone who might want to kill Riley or Ms. Williams?" he asked. "Maybe Julian just happened to be in the killer's way."

"Are y'all making sure they're safe? If that's true and the killer hasn't been caught, they're probably still in danger, you know," the bartender said, frowning in concern. "I can't think of anyone who'd want them dead. I hear people talk, but it's about their relationships, their jobs. You'd have to be real drunk to confess a murder plot to someone like me in public."

Sam and Dean exchanged another glance, silently agreeing with the man.

"When's Beckett's shift over?" Dean asked.

Uselessly, the bartender glanced at his wrist, where he wore no watch, and then he turned around to look at a clock on the wall. "In a few hours," he replied, finally, after taking a few moments to apparently read the thing. Sam was beginning to wonder if the guy wasn't stoned; he looked the type. Dean didn't really care so long as he was useful, which he had only been slightly so far.

"Thanks. We'll be in touch if we can think of anything else you could help with," Sam said curtly.

"No problem," the bartender replied and immediately set to taking care of patrons he'd been neglecting during their brief conversation.

* * *

For the next few hours, Sam and Dean waited around at a table in the middle of the pub so that they could look around and have lunch at the same time. When Beckett's shift finally ended, they intercepted her before she could leave.

"Oh! Agents Walsh and… Steinhardt!" she said, surprised to see them – they hadn't been within her range of tables to take care of. "Have you found anything?"

"Actually, we wanted to some more, if that's okay," Sam said.

"Were you going anywhere?" Dean asked.

"I… uh… Nowhere that's more important than this." She clung to her bag as for moral support, her anxiety about the subject still obvious.

"I'm surprised you're already working so soon after your friend was killed," Dean said, a little too harshly. Sam gave him a hard look, which softened the moment he turned his eyes to the girl. "Why don't we sit and talk for a bit. We have just a few more questions."

A little shocked by Dean's accusation, the girl only nodded and followed them to a corner table near the back of the restaurant, well away from the bar and the majority of the customers, though the place was generally fairly small. Once they were seated, Beckett fidgeted awkwardly, unsure how to act under their scrutiny, which she felt to be much less friendly than the day before.

"So, why'd you kill him?" Dean asked bluntly.

"What?" she gasped, then sputtered. "I… Kill- What? N-no. He was my- but… oh my god!"

Sam gave his brother another stern look. He had used similarly cruel tactics himself to startle people into a truthful answer, but he didn't approve of this now. "Sorry, Beckett," he apologized for his brother. "We're just trying to explore all possibilities. Can you think of any reason anyone would want to kill you or Riley or your friend, Julian?"

"No," she said nervously. "And there's no reason any of us would want t-to…" Unable to finish the sentence, she looked away. It took a while before she would respond to anything they said, several tears running down her cheek as she fought to keep herself together. Finally, she worked up the courage to speak. Her breath caught in her throat. "The police are going to bring in Riley really soon. They still think he did it, because they got into fights sometimes and Luc had to file a police report once because of it."

"Luc?" Sam glanced at Dean, then leaned forward to look a little more directly at Beckett and get her to focus. "The bartender, Luc?" Struck by his curiosity, she nodded. The younger Winchester leaned back again. "Beckett, how well do you know Luc?"

"Not that well," she admitted. "He usually works nights, so I mostly see him when I come here with… When I came here with Jules and Riley," she said, her voice diminishing significantly around the name of her dead friend. Her tone, however, picked back up again after she started with a new sentence. "I mean, besides today, I worked with him for a week, and we only really talked a couple of times. He gave me a ride home once, because it was really late, and that was it." She stared over to where Luc was talking lightly with some customer, a vague expression etched across his face. She reddened slightly and looked back at Sam. "Why?"

"He said he didn't remember you worked here," Sam said, "So we're just trying to get a better idea of how reliable he is as a source of information. Standard procedure." Dean gave him a look that made it clear he felt his moderate liking for the bartender had been undermined, but he approved, since he couldn't really bring himself to trust much of anyone. Beckett blinked but nodded her understanding. "Do you think you could tell us about when you worked together? What kind of person is he?"

The girl faltered a moment, fumbling with the words she meant to get out. "I guess…We only talked twice… It was about a month ago, so I'm not sure why he'd say he didn't remember I worked here. Kind of mean," she muttered. "Um… anyway…"

She went on to explain.

_ The thunder added a certain gravitas to the melancholy music playing over the bar's speakers. At least, Beckett thought so as she set down a warm bowl of tomato soup in front of the place's sole mid-day regular. Dark clouds loomed heavy, visible as a weight above the town outside the windows, but no rain had fallen yet._

_ "Hey, Becks!" a friendly voice called from behind the bar. "Where's your friend today?"_

_ She turned. "He's helping his sister pack for college. Said that yesterday," Beckett said, with no trace of the impatience she could have shown at his having forgotten._

_ "Guess I didn't hear."_

_ "Oh, hey! Have you heard about the murder?" she asked walking over to lean on the bar while the regular she'd served pretended to work on a newspaper crossword puzzle. "It was all over the news last night."_

_ "Awful," he drawled. "Jesus." The bartender swore softly and looked at the waitress, knowing she had more to say. Her eyes shone with an excitement that went beyond a tragedy in a small town._

_ "Well, it turns out there's been a whole string of them, you know? Across the past ten years or so. But none of them are related." He tilted his head slightly. "I mean," she went on, trying to explain coherently, "like, they were all solved easy, and it's always different people, but there are so many, you know?"_

_ "Watch much TV?" the bartender asked, a wry smile tugging at the corner of thin lips._

_ She punched him playfully in the arm. "No. But I was looking at records. There have been seven in the past six months after a gap of a few years." He raised an eyebrow this time, somewhat intrigued._

_ "So?" he asked._

_ "So! So, don't you think it's weird?" she asked. "They were committed twice a month in exact intervals. It's just so strange."_

_ He frowned now, seeing that she was taking this more seriously than he had thought. "I'll admit it's not… likely," he conceded lazily. "But what does that have to do with anything."_

_ "There's going to be another one," she said anxiously. "I know it."_

_ "What?"_

_ "Two every month. Seven murders?" His eyes widened slightly, his surprised stare reminding her of an owl. "Now you get it? I'm worried."_

_ "Don't you think the police will figure it out?" he asked after a pause. "Christ, if you know that, then they must."_

_ Beckett pursed her lips, though she didn't argue._

After she had explained this, Sam asked a few more questions, then walked outside to catch up with Dean, who had stormed off.

"Sonuvabitch lied to us, Sammy!" he growled.

"Hold on," Sam said. "You saw the dude, right?" He pulled a thoroughly incredulous expression as they headed for the car. "I mean, he might not actually remember."

Dean replied with his own look of incredulity. "Seriously?"

"What?" The younger Winchester tilted his head.

"Don't tell me you're suddenly believing in coincidences." A caustic tone entered his voice that he hadn't really meant to let slip in, but he didn't back down from the criticism of his brother's willingness to write off the suspicion rising around the bartender.

"I just think we need to look at the facts before we start calling someone a murderer because he lied about how knowing a coworker." He raised his arms uselessly in a show of mild frustration, but Dean stood, relatively stoic now that his indignation at being lied to had subsided.

"So, you really want to get involved in this? Cause I'm pretty sure it's just people, Sam, and we kind of have bigger things to worry about." Standing by the door to the Impala, he shuffled impatiently, already mentally mapping out where they should go from here. The small town was slightly out of the way, but it wasn't too far from I-45, which would take them back north through Dallas, or they could head east… Struck by his brother's quiet, Dean gave Sam a sharp look. His brother was staring at him with a bitchy expression that under a lighter mood might have earned him some kind of good-natured teasing, but not now. Something had set Dean on edge, and he couldn't even pinpoint what it was himself. "Well?" he pressed.

"Remember when it used to be about the people, Dean? It used to be our job to save people."

"There's a bigger picture here. Besides, the police can handle this. It's just a normal murder – it's not our business."

"One more day," Sam said, searching Dean's eyes for some sign of relent in this strangely tense mood that took hold of him from time to time. It hurt seeing him switch so easily like this, because he'd certainly been in a better mood before it was made clear the bartender was not as trustworthy as he seemed. Sam determined to look further into the man's character without Dean, if his brother would consent to staying in the small town for the next twenty-four, so they could try to sort things out. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this left uncovered, but it was only a hunch, and he had to admit that all the concrete evidence thus far pointed to regular murder.

A long hard look passed between the boys, at the end of which Dean rolled his shoulders in a shruggish gesture. "Whatever, man."

Relief sifted through Sam's chest. He nodded. "Okay, well, uh… We should probably talk to Riley again." Dean nodded.

* * *

Far from terribly helpful, Riley proved reluctant to answer many questions without Beckett around. They cornered him in the parking lot of the apartment complex on his way back from work, intercepting him before he could reach the relative safety of his friend's company.

"What was your friendship like," Sam asked, looking sternly at the young man.

Riley leaned against his car where they had caught him parking, a cardigan he must have been wearing at work but forsook in the face of the Texas sun, now draped over his arms, which were crossed uncomfortably across his chest.

"With Conway?" he asked, giving the Winchesters a dry-eyed stare.

The brothers noted the way he used the last name, Dean especially, trying to piece together what the bartender had told him about the friends. Even if that information were potentially untrustworthy, it proved a basis to test by.

"He dated my sister in college," he said, his voice strained; the idea of this even now bothered him. "I met Beckett through him, because she was with one of his friends at the time. Conway was…" He looked away, not out of emotion but at a loss for words, remembering. "He wasn't what you'd call a great guy."

At this pronouncement, he looked very earnestly between the brothers in a way that made Sam uncomfortable and Dean wary. "You start to overlook things like that though, the better you know someone, because that's not all he was. Sure, we fought sometimes, because I didn't like the way he treated people, and he thought I was… condescending and superior, but you know. Everyone fights sometimes. We were friends."

"Whoa, whoa. Take it easy." Dean raised a cautionary hand. "We're not saying you're the killer."

"We think someone might be trying to frame you," Sam said, suddenly remembering the death threat with the clover – obviously a dig at Riley's Irish background, if framing him for murder really were the idea. Hopefully the police would see that, but they might also see it as a flippant calling card from an equally flippant, immigrant murderer.

Fear flashed and then hardened in a narrowing of the Irishman's eyes. "Who would want to put me away for murder?" he asked, thoroughly bewildered.

Dean could imagine a few reasons why someone might want to prank the kid, but he had to agree that he'd seen nothing egregiously horrible about him. He threw a glance at Sam, since his brother seemed to be better at dealing with Riley than he was himself. The younger Winchester obliged without any kind of verbal cue, knowing well enough that Dean didn't like Riley. "That's what we're trying to find out," he said, "because more and more, that's what's adding up. Someone wanted to frame you for murder. It's possible that the killer was originally after Beckett and ended up getting your friend Julian instead – sorry, by the way."

Riley merely wrinkled his nose in response but displayed no other outward signs of an emotional reaction to the mention of his friend. He'd still not quite accepted that the boy was gone, so he managed to deal with everything at a distance and was fairly grateful, because it kept him rational in trying to understand what could possibly be behind all of this. "I really don't know, otherwise I'd tell you. I didn't think I had enemies."

Dean lifted his chin slightly, defying him to defend this claim. Riley stared at the man he took for a federal agent for a moment, lips pressed tightly together in a perturbed line. "I may have rubbed a few people the wrong way, but enough to kill me?" A bewildered town overtook his lilting tones. "Who does that?"

"The death threat that Julian received," Sam cut in, bringing the subject back to practical terms. "Did it have any indicators, any address?"

"The police looked at it thoroughly. Whoever sent it was pretty good about keeping it clean," Riley replied, his voice suddenly hollow, as some thought brought into focus the gravity of the situation. He looked back and forth between the brothers. "Please tell me you have some kind of lead."

The brothers exchanged glances. Dean finally decided to take charge, since he'd done the most research at the bar and Sam hadn't turned up anything more useful in his own searching. The elder Winchester pursed his lips and shifted his weight, quickly working out the best way to phrase things so he wouldn't offend Riley and have to deal with him longer than necessary. "We talked to the bartender over in the pub off the main road, and he mentioned someone Julian used to go see there." A vaguely confused look held Riley's eyes fixed on Dean's stolid green, so the hunter continued, pressing, "A girl named Lailah? Ring any bells, Lucky?"

He hadn't meant to call Riley anything other than his name, but the mental nickname had slipped out as his patience had waned. Though, if he was being honest with himself, which in and of itself was a rarity, Dean wasn't sorry at all for the minor lapse into irreverence, because he wasn't concerned with impressing Riley or making him like him. A guy like this was likely best kept worried enough to cooperate with a minimal amount of snark.

Riley let out a deep sigh but managed to contain and repress any show of obvious irritation beyond his general state of mind. "Lailah's the manager there," he clarified. "Jules had it hard for her. For a while, we were there a few time a week just a week just so the bugger would have someone to talk to while he was waiting to catch up with her." He pulled a wry sort of near-smile that mostly came across as a grimace. "She didn't care an ounce for him, though. I mean, she flirted a bit to be friendly, you know, but you could see she only put up with him to keep him coming in and paying for drinks."

"I'm guessing Julian would have told a different story," Dean said.

At this, Riley shrugged in concession. "For sure, he'd have been more optimistic of his chances, or he wouldn't have been trying so hard to get her attentions." He narrowed his eyes. "What you think she has something to do with all of this mess? She barely knew who I was much less would have cared enough to frame me for Julian's murder."

"Just trying to put all of the pieces together, Mr. Fallon," Sam sad, looking quite seriously at the young man. He brushed his hair behind his ears and glanced up toward the apartment buildings. While the evening air wasn't overly hot, he and Dean were in their fed suits and south Texas was humid as hell this time of year. Seeing Beckett making her way towards them from that direction caught him off guard. Under lighter circumstances, he might have waved – she was kind of cute – but he merely greeted her with a "hello" when she came near enough to hear easily.

"Saw you guys from the window," she said, brow crinkled anxiously. "Find anything?"

"Starting to," Dean said, shifting his eyes to Riley, who relaxed visibly in his friend's presence.

"Maybe," Sam amended.

"Wanna come inside?" she asked, looking at each in turn, eyebrows still raised nervously and making her eyes round in the process. "I could make some tea or get you boys a beer…"

Dean threw a look at Sam and frowned slightly once he caught his brother's attention. "I'm going to go see if I can get Lailah's number from our best friend, Luc the bar guy. Why don't you go ahead and with tea time," he grumbled in a low voice so that only Sam could hear – Riley had already moved away from them to be closer to Beckett – and his brother nodded ascension. "Hey, I have work to do, but I'll let you two know if anything turns up," he said gruffly and turned to leave.

Sam watched his brother go before turning to Beckett and Riley, who waited in awkward quiet for his answer. "I do have a few more things to talk about. Thanks for the invitation," he said, nodding to Beckett again, then followed her and her flat mate up to the apartment, while Dean rumbled off in the Impala, back toward the bar.

* * *

Dean committed to following the investigation after talking to the bartender again. When he met his brother at the motel again, he explained simply that they had become too invested to leave it now, and besides he'd gotten Lailah's address, because she was apparently unlikely to be back at work the rest of the week, as she was still ill. Sam accepted this and moved on, falling asleep easily while his older brother stayed awake, staring at the ceiling for several hours before he could bring himself to close his eyes.


End file.
